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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26043604">Trouble on the A26</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/akindofmerrywar/pseuds/akindofmerrywar'>akindofmerrywar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(and maybe more), Clothes Sharing, Comfort, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, Pining, bros being best friends, getting rejected by someone else, hand holding, soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 08:47:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,764</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26043604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/akindofmerrywar/pseuds/akindofmerrywar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Geralt couldn’t help but smile to himself. Even traipsing through the mud, his new shoes and freshly-pressed trousers almost certainly ruined, speaking to Jaskier lit a kind of warmth within him, making him feel safe.</i>
  <br/>
  <i><br/>“Can I come over?” He asked.</i>
</p><p>Geralt's car breaks down on his way to a date with a woman he's not even sure he likes. With a half-wilted bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, there's only one person he wants to see right now - if Jaskier will have him. (He will. He always will.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>335</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Waiting For You to Come Home - Modern AUs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Trouble on the A26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt twisted the key in the ignition once more. The engine choked and spluttered, the car jerking beneath him. <em>Shit</em>. More cars zoomed past him on the dual carriageway, their headlights illuminating the driver’s seat in bright strobes. His phone sat discarded on the passenger side. As he watched, another message flashed up. He grabbed the phone and scrolled through them.</p><p>
<em>7:31 - Geralt?</em>
</p><p>
<em>7:45 - Where are you</em>
</p><p>
<em>7:59 - Hello?</em>
</p><p>
<em>8:15 - Hello?</em>
</p><p>
<em>8: 25 - Ok don’t bother w/e</em>
</p><p>
<em>9:02 - I was more interested in your brother anyway </em>
</p><p>
With a frustrated huff, he thumped his hand against the steering wheel, connecting with the horn with a short, sharp <em>honk</em>, making him jump. He cursed, slumping forwards, his forehead connecting satisfyingly with the cool plastic. He knocked his head against it, vaguely trying to beat some sense into himself.
</p><p>
<em>Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.</em>
</p><p>
<em>Shit.</em> His first date in a year and he’d fucked it up. Honestly, he was more annoyed about the failed date than the woman he was supposed to be seeing - Eskel had given him her number, muttering something about her <em>magnetic personality</em> - and as they and Lambert were on their second bottle of Redanian Spirit by that stage he’d texted her: something he usually wouldn’t do. She’d actually seemed keen to meet: the restaurant had been her idea, in fact, and she’d sent him the link to make reservations nearly three weeks in advance. Sure, it had been expensive, but…
</p><p>
Geralt stopped thumping his head against the steering wheel. <em>Fuck</em>. Suddenly, everything fell into place. He was an idiot. He was a horny idiot who’d been so invested in the idea of not dying alone that he’d managed to completely ignore all the red flags.
</p><p>
He turned the key again. This time there wasn’t even a response from beneath the hood. The car was completely dead. <em>Fantastic.</em> He quickly checked over his shoulder to make sure nothing was coming, then hopped out of the car and clambered up onto the grass verge beside the hard shoulder. The dress shoes he was wearing had no grip whatsoever, and slipped on the muddy grass. He swore, the hazard lights blinking at him, mocking him. He found the number for the breakdown cover Vesemir had <em>insisted</em> he get, and tapped an impatient foot as the calling tone hummed against the noise of the traffic.
</p><p>
“Good evening, this is Western Winds Breakdown Cover, how can I help?”
</p><p>
“Hi,” said Geralt, blocking the sound of the wind and traffic with a cupped hand, “I’ve broken down and my car is dead. I need someone to come and tow me to the nearest garage.” 
</p><p>
“And where are you?” Trilled the voice.
</p><p>
Geralt looked around. “The A26,” he said, “just before the turning to Oxenfurt.”
</p><p>
“One moment, please.”
</p><p>
The line cut to tinny hold music. He sighed, fiddling with a self-aware nervousness at the sleeve of the suit jacket his date had <em>insisted </em>he wear. Finally, the voice reappeared.
</p><p>
“It looks like we’ve had a bit of a rush this evening,” she said, “I’m afraid we won’t be able to get anyone to you for at least a couple of hours.”
</p><p>
“<em>What?”</em> Geralt bit back the urge to swear at her. “I can’t wait here for <em>two hours!</em>”
</p><p>
“Oh, of course Sir. We never recommend our clients wait at this time of night, especially for so long. If you can just confirm your license plate and membership number for me, I can send out a truck as soon as one’s available. The driver will give you a ring when he arrives just to confirm that it’s your car.”
</p><p>
Geralt breathed through his nose, impatiently. “Fine,” he said, “<em>Fine,” </em>then gave her the details she needed. He could hear her clacking away on her keyboard at the other end of the line.
</p><p>
“Right, then,” she said, finally, “And we’ll just need a password as well, just so we can confirm your identity when our truck arrives.”
</p><p>
He didn’t even think. “Dandelion.”
</p><p>
“Excellent choice. Thank you very much for choosing Western Winds.”
</p><p>
The line dropped off. Geralt stared at his car, the hazard lights still merrily blinking away. He looked at his watch - his <em>best </em>watch. It was half past nine. There was nothing else for it. He’d have to walk.
</p><p>
He leant back into the car to grab his keys and his wallet, which had been lying next to his phone on the passenger seat. Next to the wallet was a vibrant bunch of flowers. <em>Fuck</em>. He grabbed them too. They’d been expensive, after all: He’d dashed into the flower shop moments before getting in the car, struck with the sudden panic that a fancy date at a fancy restaurant would also require fancy flowers. The woman behind the counter had been a little amused - and very sorry, as that late at night there’d been fewer blooms in stock than usual. He’d had to make do with what they had: a few red tulips, some carnations, a couple of chrysanthemums. It was, to be honest, a bit of a mess, but in a sudden surge of creativity Geralt had decided a simple dozen red roses would be too <em>boring</em>.
</p><p>
He stared down at the mismatched bouquet and sighed. She probably would have laughed at it anyway.
</p><p>
He began the slow trudge through the wet grass towards the slip road, the ridiculous dress shoes squeaking and twisting in the mud. Up above, far away from the noise of the main road, a row of houses loomed, their windows illuminated in neat , twinkling ange rows. He stared up at them. 
</p><p>
<em>Wait…</em>
</p><p>
He reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone, and quickly dialed the number. It rang for a long time. He was about to hang up, realising what a stupid idea it had been, when there was a sleepy voice in his ear.
</p><p>
“Hello? Geralt?” Jaskier sounded exhausted.
</p><p>
“Jaskier? Sorry, did I wake you up?”
</p><p>
There was a sniff. “No, no. Well. Yes, you did, but it’s too early to be asleep anyway. What’s up?”
</p><p>
“My car’s broken down on the A26, just before the Oxenfurt slip road.”
</p><p>
“Fuck, Geralt. Are you okay?”
</p><p>
“I’m fine. The car’s not.”
</p><p>
“Ohh, no,” breathed Jaskier. It sounded like he meant it. “Poor Roach.”
</p><p>
“Hmm.”
</p><p>
“Have you got a thingy coming? You know, a tow truck guy?”
</p><p>
“Yeah, but not for a couple hours.”
</p><p>
“Shit. Geralt, I’d come and get you but I’ve had two very large glasses of wine. Sorry.”
</p><p>
“It’s fine, I wasn’t expecting you to.” He paused. “Are you okay, Jaskier?” There was a long silence. Jaskier would chat and chat no matter what. If he was silent, something was definitely wrong. “Jaskier?”
</p><p>
“You’ll get all judgy on me.”
</p><p>
“No I won’t,” Geralt lied.
</p><p>
“I… went round to Virginia’s house. Virginia Stael.”
</p><p>
“<em>Jaskier.”</em>
</p><p>
“I know, I know. You warned me. And I went anyway.”<br/>
</p><p>
“And?”
</p><p>
“And… she was there with her new boyfriend. Who told me fuck off. And then <em>she</em> told me to fuck off. And I said, look, Virginia, you’re the one who sent me that text, and then her boyfriend started getting angry, and <em>she</em> started getting angry, and then…”
</p><p>
“What?”
</p><p>
“Well <em>then</em> I read the text out, and then they started swearing at each other, so…”
</p><p>
“You ran?”
</p><p>
“I ran. I ran all the way to Tesco to buy a bottle of Rosé and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. And they didn’t even <em>have </em>Ben and Jerry’s. I had to buy a <em>cake</em>. It was the cheapest thing I could find with sugar and chocolate in it.”
</p><p>
“I <em>did </em>warn you.”
</p><p>
“And as we both know, you’re always right.” 
</p><p>
Geralt couldn’t help but smile to himself. Even traipsing through the mud, his new shoes and freshly-pressed trousers almost certainly ruined, speaking to Jaskier lit a kind of warmth within him, making him feel safe.
</p><p>
“Can I come over?” He asked.
</p><p>
“I… what? Geralt, what are you talking about?”
</p><p>
“Your house is only forty minutes from the slip road. Look, I know it’s late, but I’ve got nowhere else to go…”
</p><p>
He could hear Jaskier’s dramatic, exaggerated sigh. “I <em>suppose</em> you can come over.”
</p><p>
“Thanks. I, ah…” He bit his lip. “Thanks.”
</p><p>
“What are best friends for, hmm?” Jaskier purred. “And if you pass Tesco, make sure you buy another bottle of wine, okay?” 
</p><p>
“Okay.”
</p><p>
“So…” Jaskier said, clearly trying to sound nonchalant, “What’re you doing on the A26 Oxenfurt slip road at nine thirty in the evening?” 
</p><p>
Geralt coughed.
</p><p>
“What was that?”
</p><p>
“I was… going on a date.”
</p><p>
“On the A26?”
</p><p>
“No, in Novigrad.”
</p><p>
There was another pause. “May I ask… with who?”
</p><p>
Now it was Geralt’s turn to hesitate. Jaskier picked up on it immediately.
</p><p>
“Who was it, Geralt, come on. Tell me. I deserve to know.”
</p><p>
Geralt sighed. “Remember… Eskel’s friend?”
</p><p>
Jaskier swore so loudly Geralt had to hold the phone away from his ear. A car sped past, illuminating him as he winced. When he brought the phone back, he could still hear Jaskier ranting.
</p><p>
“--warned you, Geralt, it was a terrible idea! And you go ahead and do it anyway! Well now fate has clearly intervened on my behalf, to prove to you what a foolish…”
</p><p>
“I know.”
</p><p>
“Come again?”
</p><p>
“I <em>know</em>.” He laughed. “I know it was stupid. Want to know where our date was?”
</p><p>
“...go on?”
</p><p>
“The Passiflora.”
</p><p>
“Geralt, <em>no</em>. They take bookings <em>weeks</em> in advance!”
</p><p>
“I <em>know</em>, Jaskier. I had to get one.”
</p><p>
“They take a <em>deposit!”</em> Jaskier said it like it was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard. “They don’t let you in unless you’re wearing…” he trailed off. “Geralt?”
</p><p>
Geralt knew what was coming. “Yes?”
</p><p>
“Are you… and, forgive me if this is cruel, but are you currently walking down the A26 wearing a full three piece suit?”
</p><p>
Geralt didn’t respond.
</p><p>
“Oh my <em>gods</em> you are! Geralt!” He burst into laughter. “Oh, Geralt. I’m sorry.”
</p><p>
“Don’t be. I think she just wanted to see how far she could take me. She just sent me a message about how she preferred Eskel anyway.”
</p><p>
“<em>Well…</em>” Crooned Jaskier, thoughtfully, “She may be onto something there…”
</p><p>
“Jaskier!”
</p><p>
“I’m <em>joking</em>, Geralt. Come now. So… it didn’t work out, then?”
</p><p>
“It didn’t work out.”
</p><p>
“<em>Shame</em>.”
</p><p>
“Shut up, Jaskier.”
</p><p>
Jaskier just giggled at him. “So… when can I expect you?”
</p><p>
Geralt had begun the slog up the steep bank of the slip road. His shoes slid dangerously on the mud. “Half an hour?” He guessed, as a huge lorry zoomed past.
</p><p>
“What?”
</p><p>
“Half an hour!”
</p><p>
“Alright, alright, no need to shout about it. I’ll get the kettle on, shall I?”
</p><p>
“Please do.”
</p><p>
“I’ll see you later.”
</p><p>
“See you in a bit, Geralt.”
</p><p>
He tucked the phone back into his pocket. Three more cars zoomed past. He wondered, somewhat bitterly, why none had stopped and offered to help. Oh well - no use dwelling. He stared up at the hill that presented itself to him.
</p><p>
There was only one way up.
</p><p>
~
</p><p>
Jaskier flicked through Netflix, listlessly. He’d last spoken to Geralt forty-five minutes ago, and he was beginning to get nervous. He’d tried to call him - tried to call him several times - but was only getting his voicemail.
</p><p>
He tried to focus on the TV. He was <em>not</em> thinking about the suddenly very real and rather awful idea that Geralt might be lying in a ditch on the side of the A26, covered in mud, his sad, lifeless body lit up by the passing traffic, the only sound the roar of the--
</p><p>
He dialed Geralt’s number again. He listened to the dial tone, then the ring, impatiently tapping his fingers against his knee.
</p><p>
“Pick up, Geralt,” he muttered, the tapping growing more insistent. “Pick up…”
</p><p>
There was a sudden banging at the door. Jaskier leapt out of his skin, dropping the phone onto his chest. He jumped up, nearly sending his half-empty glass of wine flying, and ran to the door.
</p><p>
He slid back the latch and pulled it open.
</p><p>
Geralt stared back at him.
</p><p>
Jaskier burst out laughing. “Oh <em>Geralt</em>.”
</p><p>
He really <em>had </em>dressed up for his date. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, the blazer slung over one arm. The waistcoat was unbuttoned and the perfectly tailored trousers were coated thickly with mud. In fact - <em>most</em> of Geralt was coated with mud: it streaked up his leg, splashed up one arm. There was even some in his <em>hair</em>.
</p><p>
His hair which, Jaskeir quickly noted, had been tied into a rather fashionable top-knot. It suited him, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. In fact: the whole outfit suited him, the shirt and waistcoat well-tailored to his frame, neatly outlining his torso. Jaskier very rarely got to see Geralt in a suit, and the rather lovely image was only a little ruined by the mud.
</p><p>
“What <em>happened?”</em> He said, finally.
</p><p>
“I fell.”
</p><p>
Jaskeir’s heart swelled. “Are you okay?”
</p><p>
“Fine. Bruised ego more than anything.”
</p><p>
“Shall I fetch you a cup of tea?”
</p><p>
“I’d rather a glass of this, actually.”
</p><p>
Geralt thrust a bottle of wine into Jaskier’s hands. “Oohh,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “this is the good shit.”
</p><p>
Geralt shrugged. “I’ve decided,” he said, kicking his muddy feet against Jaskier’s front step, “that I deserve it.”
</p><p>
“I think you do,” said Jaskier, grinning. “Come on, come in, go and get yourself cleaned up and I’ll find you a glass.” Geralt hovered in the doorway. “What’s wrong? I don’t mind a little mud, you know me...”
</p><p>
Geralt thrust out his other hand. Held within it, was a slightly wilted bunch of flowers. 
</p><p>
“Oh!” Jaskier couldn’t help the little shocked noise. He knew, logically, that these had been for Geralt’s <em>date</em> - not for him - and yet… “They’re lovely, Geralt. Do you want me to find you a vase? These are nice, they’ll keep till tomorr--”
</p><p>
“They’re for you,” Geralt said, rather awkwardly. “I mean. You should keep them.”
</p><p>
Jaskier gazed at the flowers. “They’ve not even gotten muddy,” he said, unsure what else he could say.
</p><p>
“They were in my other hand.”
</p><p>
“Right. Yes. Ah…” Jaskier swallowed, trying to ignore the little elated feeling in his chest. “You should come inside, really. You’re making my house look messy. What <em>will</em> the neighbours think…”
</p><p>
Geralt smiled. He was about to step into the house, when he seemed to pause. “Wait…”
</p><p>
Pressing toe to heel, he wrenched each shoe off. Jaskier grimaced at the haphazard way he treated the clearly <em>very</em> expensive shoes, but decided it was best not to comment. When the shoes were removed, the socks followed - also, somehow, stained with mud. Geralt stared down at them.
</p><p>
“You can… leave them outside,” said Jaskier. “I don’t think anyone’s going to steal them, do you?”
</p><p>
“No, probably not.” With a final awkward glance at his stained clothes, Geralt stepped inside. Jaskier quickly shut the door behind him. 
</p><p>
“Right,” he said, bustling around Geralt, “You know where the bathroom is. You head up and get as much of that muck off as you can, and I’ll find you something else to wear, alright?”
</p><p>
“I…”
</p><p>
“Go on! You’re getting mud everywhere…”
</p><p>
Geralt did as he was told, traipsing up the stairs towards the bathroom. Jaskier hurried into the kitchen, throwing the bottle of wine into the fridge and then filling the sink for the flowers. When they were safely submerged, he followed Geralt up the stairs, heading towards his room. He dug through his chest of drawers until he found an old pair of sweatpants and a band shirt that seemed the right size. He folded them - fastidiously - and placed them outside the bathroom door.
</p><p>
“I’ve left a couple of things just outside the door,” he called, “for you to get changed!”
</p><p>
And then, trying very hard <em>not </em>to linger on the mental image of Geralt standing naked in his bathroom, Jaskier headed back downstairs. He grabbed another glass from the cupboard and the wine from the fridge - only slightly cooled - then wandered back into the living room. Wine and glasses safely deposited on the coffee table, he sat back on the sofa, waiting.
</p><p>
He began to drum his fingers on his knee again.
</p><p>
He looked down at himself. He was dressed in his pajamas, and not even the cute ones with the little shorts - the old ones that he’d picked up ages ago, full of holes in all the wrong places. He should have gotten changed when he had the chance, really. And Geralt - perfect, marvellous, <em>dreadful</em> Geralt -  had shown up in a full three piece designer suit.
</p><p>
<em>Shit</em>.
</p><p>
He held his head in his hands. First Virginia, now <em>this</em>. He could feel dutch courage buzzing in his fingers. No: he couldn’t. He wanted to, but he wasn’t <em>going</em> to. He did <em>not</em> want to get rejected twice in one night.
</p><p>
“Jaskier?”
</p><p>
He looked up. Geralt stood in the doorway to the living room, staring at him. 
</p><p>
“Hrnkkk<em>hello</em>.” It came out slightly choked, a strangled little noise. 
</p><p>
He’d been right, at least: the clothes he’d chosen for Geralt fit him. <em>Just</em>. The sweatpants - well - they fit well enough around the legs, but the higher they went the tighter they got. The thin fabric clung to his arse, and left absolutely nothing to the imagination anywhere else, either. Even the shirt, which Jaskier had always thought was at least a <em>little </em>baggy on himself, clung to Geralt’s arms like it was painted on.
</p><p>
Geralt seemed to notice his sudden distraction. 
</p><p>
“Jaskier?” He said, coming closer, “you okay?”
</p><p>
“Hmmm<em>yes, fine</em>,” said Jaskier, quickly. “Wine?” He grabbed the bottle and the glasses, trying to find anything to distract himself.
</p><p>
“Please,” said Geralt, slumping onto the sofa next to him. 
</p><p>
Jaskier smiled, going to unscrew the lid, then realised. 
</p><p>
“A <em>cork</em>?” He said, “very fancy. Hold on…”
</p><p>
He picked up the bottle and headed into the kitchen, glad for a brief respite from Geralt’s maddenly sculpted figure. He rooted around in the draw for the bottle opener, then quickly got to work at unstopping the bottle. The cork came out easily with a satisfying little <em>pop</em>.
</p><p>
Jaskier sighed, grabbing onto the counter top. <em>Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.</em>
</p><p>
His eyes fell to the bunch of flowers, still sitting in the sink. Keen to find something to do with his hands, he grabbed a vase from the shelf on the other side of the room and filled it with water, then grabbed the bouquet. He unwrapped the paper and dunked the stems into the vase haphazardly. Jaskier went to pick it up when he looked, for the first time, at the actual <em>flowers</em>.
</p><p>
Red tulips. Carnations. Pink and red chrysanthemums. <em>Huh</em>. Geralt wasn’t one for <em>floriography</em>. He’d probably just grabbed whatever blooms he could. And, even then, they were meant for someone else: not him. 
</p><p>
Even so… 
</p><p>
He stroked a gentle finger across the soft petal of one of the tulips, velvety against his skin. He sighed. 
</p><p>
“Uh… Jaskier?”
</p><p>
He spun around. Geralt was standing in the door of the kitchen, looking concerned. “Um...”
</p><p>
“What’re you doing?”
</p><p>
“I just thought I’d… sort out the flowers. While I remembered.”
</p><p>
“Right.”
</p><p>
“They’re… they’re really lovely, Geralt.”
</p><p>
Aware he was looking a little awkward, he grabbed the vase. “Here,” he said, offering it to Geralt, “You can take this. Put it on the coffee table, would you?”
</p><p>
Geralt reached for the vase. It was heavy, and awkwardly shaped, and instead of grabbing the vase his hands wrapped around Jaskier’s. <em>Oh</em>. He knew he was blushing, <em>knew</em> that as soon as Geralt’s hands had touched his that his face had lit up like his head was full of fairy lights. 
</p><p>
“Ah--”
</p><p>
“Um--”
</p><p>
They gaped at each other for a moment, then Geralt removed his hands, awkwardly rubbing them against his sides. 
</p><p>
“I’ll, ah… get the wine, shall I?”
</p><p>
Jaskier nodded, and Geralt brushed past him towards the counter top. Even that brief, accidental touch made Jaskier’s skin tingle. <em>No</em>, he reminded himself, <em>No.</em> Without looking behind him, Jaskier darted back into the living room, taking longer than was strictly necessary to find the right spot for the flowers atop the ring-marked coffee table. He was sliding it into place when a full glass of wine was placed next to him with a gentle <em>clink</em>. Without looking up, he heard the sofa sag behind him, Geralt’s content murmur as he sank into the soft cushion. 
</p><p>
He grabbed the glass, and rose back to his feet. Geralt was leaning back against the sofa, the glass of wine hanging lazily from one hand, his legs spread <em>just</em> enough to make it indecent. Jaskier took a long, slow sip. He couldn’t <em>not</em> stare, and suddenly he felt even more aware of his ratty clothes, his messy hair, the bags under his eyes.
</p><p>
Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. <em>Shit</em>. He’d been thoroughly caught. “Sit down, Jaskier,” he said, indicating the space next to him.
</p><p>
Jaskier swallowed. Then - barely thinking - he dropped down onto the sofa next to Geralt, pressing his shoulder against Geralt’s side, the glass held in his other hand.
</p><p>
“So,” he said, finally.
</p><p>
“So.”
</p><p>
Jaskier took another sip of wine. “It appears,” he said, slowly, “we’ve both been quite horribly rejected this evening.”
</p><p>
Geralt looked down at him, slumped against his arm. “My car broke down. I wasn’t rejected.”
</p><p>
“No? Just me, then.”
</p><p>
They lapsed into silence once more. Jaskier’s gaze kept drifting to the bouquet of flowers, sat innocently on the table.
</p><p>
“Tell me, Geralt…” 
</p><p>
“What?”
</p><p>
“Do you know what red tulips mean?”
</p><p>
He shifted against him. “I can’t say I do.”
</p><p>
“I thought as much.”
</p><p>
“Why?”
</p><p>
“No reason.” Jaskier sighed, well aware how close to dangerous territory he was skirting. This was <em>Geralt</em>, for fuck’s sake. Geralt who’d had to drag himself up a muddy hill to come and sit on his sofa. Geralt who’d had nowhere else to go. Jaskier began to move away from the hot, overwhelming touch of Geralt’s arm on his, sliding back along the sofa. He was too close, too intimate.
</p><p>
And then - Geralt’s hand was on his, his finger’s lacing between his own, his thumb gently rubbing across his skin. Jaskier froze. Geralt hadn’t even turned to look at him - still staring at his wine glass. “Do <em>you </em>know?” He asked, apparently innocently.
</p><p>
“Know what?” Jaskier could only focus on Geralt’s hand on his, on the soft, slow movements of his thumb.
</p><p>
“About red tulips?”
</p><p>
“I… yeah.”
</p><p>
“Will you tell me?”
</p><p>
Jaskier trapped his bottom lip beneath his teeth. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I’m going to need another glass of wine first.” 
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)</p><p>This was inspired by a prompt game over on Tumblr. If you wanna come chat, you can find me at <a href="https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/">a-kind-of-merry-war</a>  &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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